Just Peter
by Applsd
Summary: He couldn't stop the bleeding. His uncle died. Peter Parker needs to stop this from happening to someone else. Maybe it will help with the guilt. But what if he can't stick to walls, lift a car-or even do a backflip? What if Spider-Man never existed?
1. Chapter 1

Something is out of place.

It's Monday, around mid-afternoon. A high school tour is being given at an Oscorp research facility today.

In one of the sub-level rooms, a small brown spider crawls across a lab table.

It's usually trapped in a small clear box, but now it's free, due to the carelessness of a young intern. The girl clumsily knocked the box over, and its lid popped off, resulting in the specimen's escape.

Instead of trying to re-cage the spider-which was valuable Oscorp property-the intern ran away. Her only concerns were to avoid facing any personal consequences for her mistake.

That was five minutes ago. Now the spider is roaming, reveling in its freedom and exploring the world.

A hand, pale and fleshy, rests on the table, and the spider clambors onto it without much trouble. The spider doesn't know any better. It doesn't know the hand is a hand. It only sees the hand as a strange extension of the table it was crawling on previously.

The spider _does_ realize that the hand is different. Certainly a softer texture than that of the table.

The spider wonders if this new surface is edible. But before it can taste and see-

SLAP

* * *

"Hey!" Peter yelps when his friend, Michelle Jones, slaps his hand. _Hard_. Now it's stinging and they have the attention of the entire tour group.

"There was a spider on you," Michelle explains, pointing to the table where the unfortunate arachnid fell off.

Peter shudders and moves away from it.

"Eww..."

Flash Thompson laughs and calls Peter a wuss, though if the roles were reversed, he'd be screaming bloody murder like the drama queen he is.

The tour guide gasps suddenly. "No, no _no_... Did you say a spider?"

She goes over to check, hoping it Isn't the irreplaceable experiment spider.

But of course, it _is_ that spider. And it's dead now, poor thing.

"Don't you realize what you've done?!" shrieks the woman in horror.

"No," Michelle admits.

"That was an irreplaceable experiment!"

Peter is about to apologize, but his friend stops him.

"Irreplaceable, huh?" she questions the tour guide composedly.

"Yes! Irreplaceable! The man who developed it is dead, and most of his research is gone! Now _all_ of it is, thanks to you!"

"Was the spider dangerous?"

"Yes! It's extremely radioactive and it bites! Who knows what could've happened if it had sunk its fangs into your reckless friend?!"

Peter turns pale. Michelle turns angry.

"So you had a dangerous spider running loose-while you're giving tours. Lady, _you're_ the fool in this situation."

"That spider was safely contained!"

"No it wasn't."

"Well, your friend must've set it free!"

"I didn't set it free," Peter inputs, hurt that someone would accuse him of such a thing. "Spiders give me the creeps." He shudders again as if to prove his point.

"What's your name?" the tour guide asks him sternly. "You will be held responsible for this."

"What's _your_ name?" Michelle counters. "His parents might wanna sue after they hear how their kid was almost bitten by a radioactive spider on a field trip."

The teacher supervising the class decides it's about time he interfered.

"Here's what we can do," he says to the tour guide. "You can stop threatening my students, as none of this was their fault. We'll end this tour early and, only since Peter seems to be okay, no one will be suing you. Sounds good?"

Without giving the tour guide any time to reply, he quickly herds his students upstairs and out of the lab.

As they are herded out, Peter gives Michelle a gentle hug from the side. "Thanks MJ. You might've saved me from certain death."

She shoves him away. "Or I might've saved you from getting spider powers and becoming the masked vigilante of Queens."

Peter laughs. "That sounds equally unpleasant."


	2. Chapter 2

Evening is approaching on a warm Thursday.

A man is fumbling around his messy apartment, searching for his hat.

Ah, _there_ it is. On the floor, where most things can be found. The hat is black and woolen-perfect for warding off earache in the winter months. The man puts it on and exits his apartment.

He walks down the street at a normal pace, even though the state of his nerves is anything but normal. It starts to get uncomfortably warm under his hat, but he leaves it on. He walks down to the convenience store and pauses to collect himself.

It may not be winter, but his hat is good for another thing. He pulls it down so that it covers his eyes, nose, mouth-most of his face. It's kind of hard to breathe, and he can only see properly because of the eye-holes he cut a while ago.

He pushes the door open and goes in yelling, remembering at the last second to pull out his gun. The cashier yelps at the sight of it and ducks behind the counter. An older man pushes a teenage boy behind him.

Only three people in the store. The robber is relieved. Less people means an easier job.

"Give me all the money in here and nobody has to get hurt!" he yells again.

The cashier is accommodating. He empties the register.

The older man is equally accommodating and gives up his wallet without a fight.

But then the robber tries to get behind him-The teenager he's shielding has a pretty decent camera bag slung across his shoulder.

In a chain reaction of unpleasantry, several things occur.

The older man lunges to block the robber.

The robber's keyed up nerves interpret this as a threat.

The gun goes off.

And, almost simultaneously, the man falls to the floor. It takes the sight of blood for the robber to realize what just happened.

He just shot a man. With his gun.

He turns and bolts out of the store, but he's not fast enough to miss the teenager's horrified scream.

"Uncle Ben!"

The robber doesn't stop running-not until his knees buckle and he collapses. He yanks off his hat and-still clutching the gun in his trembling hands-curls up against the side of a building. He sits there in shock.

 _It wasn't supposed to go like this._

He felt bad enough before about committing his first robbery. Now he has to deal with the guilt of committing his first _murder._

 _No, wait! The old guy might not be dead!_

 _And-and it's not my fault! He **scared** me!_

 _But he was only trying to protect his grandson! No, his great-nephew?_

He has the teenager's voice in his head.

"Uncle Ben!" Over and over again. Like a broken record player.

 _Why'd you have to pull the trigger anyway, you screw-up?_

He groans, hoping desperately that the man he shot in the chest will be okay.

* * *

Ben Parker knows he's not okay.

The cashier is talking on the phone, explaining the circumstances to the dispatcher on the other end.

Peter is crying, kneeling over his uncle in a pool of blood. He's trying to stop the bleeding and failing miserably.

He's trying to be calm and reassuring, but he can't even do _that._ His voice is too shaky. Too scared.

He's panicking, and he knows it isn't helping, but he doesn't know how to stop.

This is all his fault. His uncle was shot shielding _him_.

"Uncle Ben? You're-you're gonna be fine. The paramedics are coming. You're gonna be fine!"

Ben's pretty sure he's gonna die. The thought is frightening, but he has to be strong for Peter.

"It's okay sport," he wheezes, managing a smile despite the pain. "I'm dying, but I-I kinda feel like this was _meant_ to happen to me."

"That's _absurd_."

"Eh, maybe... Just-tell May I love her. Thas my-my only dying wish..."

"You're not dying! You _can't!_ We need you!"

"You'll have-" he pauses to cough weakly, "each other. And remember, Peter-"

"Uh..." the teenager sniffles. "Uh...With-with great power comes great responsibility?"

"No..." Ben is confused. He _has_ said that a lot, but he doesn't understand why Peter thinks it would apply to this particular situation. "Remember-*cough*-to live. If not for yourself, then for the people-*cough-cough*-who die."

Peter really wishes his uncle would stop talking about death.

Long before the paramedics arrive, that wish comes true.

Actions speak louder than words.


End file.
